In Pieces
by capjack54
Summary: Following a tragedy at CalSci, Don discovers that Charlie's close call in the accident might not have been a coincidence. Further investigation reveals a startling secret that just might put the entire team at risk...
1. In the Next 30 Seconds

**1. In the Next 30 Seconds**

**"Shallow men believe in luck. Strong men believe in cause and effect." - Ralph Waldo Emerson**

Charlie Eppes slammed his books down on his desk and sighed, running a hand through the sweaty tangle of curls that had plastered themselves to his face. At the best of times, his office was stuffy; now, in the unusually high heat of June, it might as well have been an industrial-sized, rather tastefully decorated if somewhat cluttered oven. The foot of papers that threatened to cause his desk to collapse shuddered as he added the books to their ranks, but they lay still otherwise. No redeeming breeze flowed through the window, left open in hopes of such a visitor. Crossing to the small sink fitted at the corner of his office, he stuck his coffee cup beneath the spout and pulled the handle.

Nothing happened.

Shaking his head, he looked into the unoccupied coffee cup and sighed. Just then the door to the office opened, letting in a slight breeze he relished for the moment it existed; he looked up to see Larry, short of breath and a little red-faced, who shot him a grin a he shut the door behind him.

"And how do I find you today, Charles?"

With a shrug, he collapsed into his chair. "Immersed in thought, frustration—" he gestured to the empty coffee cup, "—and thirst."

Larry cocked his brow and sat on the corner of his desk. "How so?"

Fingertips together and his chin resting on them, Charlie resembled an old-fashioned supervillain, and his expression was just as menacing. "My afternoon class has just proved my latest theory."

Larry perked up. "Oh? I didn't know you were working on anything."

"It's quite a new one, actually. The theory is that the attention spans of students are inversely related to temperature. As temperature increases, attention decreases."

A chuckle escaped Larry. "You can hardly blame them. What are the chances that the campus water main would break during perhaps the most intense heat wave ever recorded in the month of June?"

Spinning in his chair, Charlie grabbed a piece of chalk and started scribbling on the board. Two to the power of five hundred sixty-four billion, eleven million, three hundred twenty-eight thousand, nine hundred and forty-two to one," he recited, "against."

Staring at the monolith on the board, Larry shook his head. "Perhaps the remedy for this problem can be found in distraction. I recently discovered an excellent pizza place downtown with Megan—definitely worth a second visit."

With a contented snort, Charlie rose, pocketing the chalk. "A hypothesis worth investigating. Come on; I'll treat."

They made their way down several flights of stairs, emerging into the magnificent feat of engineering that was so dully referred to as the lobby, deserted for the heat.

"So, what subject was so complex and involved that it failed to hold the attention of your adoring pupils?" asked Larry.

Charlie looked sheepish for a moment, a look that Larry noticed as he passed through the door Charlie was holding for him. A look of realization crossed his face.

"Charles, don't tell me you were trying to explain your cognitive emergence theorems to you undergraduates again."

The young mathematician cast around for something to change the subject with, but the quad was fairly uneventful. A few groups of students wandered here and there, happy to be done with their last classes of the day, though the majority of them were gathered around – and in – the fountain. The quad's burbling centerpiece had been bone-dry since the water main catastrophe had occurred. Across the green could be seen a white van with PLUMBTEC painted neatly on the side; around this were gathered several white-suited men, attending to the muddy mess of a hole that had once been the damaged section of the pipe.

"I was only trying to make sure I'd got it right," he replied in frustration. "I mean, how hard is it to understand that the firing of synapses in the human brain in relation to the firing of other synapses can be quantified and their paths extrapolated using a modified application of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle?"

Larry let out a breath and waved halfheartedly to some of the frolicking youngsters in the fountain as they passed it. "A great deal harder than you might think Charles. The sheer complexity of the theories would be enough to strain the brain, and yet you've introduced the human element into equation and expect it not to complicate things?"

Charlie shot him a look. "Now, what is that supposed to mean?"

Larry shrugged. "It means, Charles, that human behavior can be a slight bit…" he searched around for a word, "…unpredictable."

As if on cue, there came a flash of light, a searing wave of heat, and the sound of the fountain exploding behind them.


	2. Tumbling Down the Rabbit Hole

Hey there, guys! Thanks for the reviews -- they make me smile!

Just in case you couldn't tell, I do not own NUMB3Rs or anything associated with it, although I really wish I did.

Enjoy!

**2. Tumbling Down the Rabbit Hole**

"**There is a little boy inside the man that is my brother." – Anna Quindlan**

In a screech of tires and flashing lights, the cruiser pulled up on the quad walkway, deterred from continuing by the sheer mass of people gathered at the center. Don was out of the car before it had come to a full stop; slamming the door behind him, he took off at a run towards the fleet of gaily flashing ambulances parked beside what remained of the fountain. Wading through the crowd of medics, campus police, and distressed college students, he assessed the damage.

Little remained of the quad as it had been; the once-proud fountain, complete with the statue of Alfred the Great, had been reduced to charred and scattered chunks of marble. Amongst the wreckage, he spotted several oddly-shaped fragments, and it was only when the smell of burnt hair and flesh rudely invaded his nose that he realized that they were corpses. If ever he had been in danger of losing his professional demeanor at a scene, this would be it; he covered his mouth and choked back the bile that rose in his throat with much difficulty. Somewhere ahead of him, he heard someone who did not have his degree of self-control, pitiful heaving noises interspersed with protests.

"No, no, really, I'm all right, I'm fine…" A pause, then… blech.

"Sir, I'm just trying to help. You've sustained severe burns that require immediate medical attention."

"I'm fine. Go help, go help the students, they need…" Blech.

"Professor Eppes, I need you to calm down. The situation is being dealt with."

Don spun, peering through the crowd until his eyes came to rest upon the arguing duo; a knot of fear settled in his stomach as he recognized the victim, leaning over the side of the gurney like an inexperienced sailor over the rail of a ship and performing much the same activity. Collecting himself, Charlie shrugged off the medic and hopped off the gurney, pulling on what was left of his shirt and stalking off in his direction. Don moved to intercept him, catching Charlie's shoulder to prevent him from leaving, an action that earned him a wince from Charlie.

"Don?" he said; there was a dazed look in his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Larry called me. Listen, buddy, you look awful. What happened here?"

Charlie cocked his head to the side. "Larry," he said softly. "Yes, I remember pushing him out of the way; but each action has an equal and opposite reaction, so it pushed me back, towards…"

Waving away the gibberish, Don shook him a little, protracting another puzzling cringe from Charlie. "Are you okay? Where were you?"

The medic seemed convinced that his patient wasn't going anywhere. Approaching the two, he peeled Charlie's shirt off his back to reveal his right side, and Don almost lost it; the area from his hip all the way to his shoulder was a red so dark it was painful to look at, in addition to a scattering of minor scrapes and bruises, supposedly from shrapnel.

"Too close," Charlie replied lamely.

"They're all minor," the medic assured him, apparently sensing the way his stomach had twisted. "He should go to L.A. General to get checked out, but he'll be alright."

"All right, thanks," Don said, and the medic moved off to attend to other victims. Don turned back to Charlie. "I want you to go with these guys; they'll take you to the hospital. I'll have Dad bring you home. "

Charlie wasn't paying attention; his gaze rested on the remains of the fountain and its unfortunate occupants. His voice was distant.

"What…" he started, then trailed off. "Who would do this?"

Unable to stomach what Charlie seemed so intent upon observing, he averted his eyes, rubbing his forehead. "I don't know, buddy, but I promise you, we're gonna find out."

Just then, David emerged from the crowd, tapping Don on the shoulder. "Hey, Don."

He turned to face him. "Hey. What have you got?"

David sighed. "There weren't that many eyewitnesses who… who survived the blast, but from what I can gather, the fountain just – blew. The bomb squad guys found the remnants of what they think set it off, but they have no clue what it is; it's definitely not anything conventional. I had it sent to the tech guys – maybe they can figure it out."

Don nodded slowly. "How many people…?"

"Twelve students dead, eight more on their way to L.A. General, two of them critical. And then there's Charlie."

A shiver ran through the mathematician at his name. His critical eyes dissected the smoking wreckage, each piece of rubble and charred cadaver coming to life in his mind, all measurements and equations, until he found the event playing over and over in his head, a live-action film complete with grid lines, coordinates, and algorithms. His brain even supplied him with the equation with which to extrapolate the artistic spray of blood on the pavement, a sight that still remained long after the ambulance doors shut behind him.


	3. A Certain Slant of Light

3

**3. A Certain Slant of Light**

"**I put my heart and soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process." – Vincent van Gogh**

The files hit the desk with a slapping noise that held the same level of enthusiasm that Don himself had at this hour. Slumping into his office chair, he stared blankly at his dimly lit computer screen, making out the tiny digits 7:32 PM in the lower right. Beyond the tiny plastic cubicle that had been his world for the last six hours, the sun was setting over the L.A. skyline. His stomach growled and his mind spun, but not with the hundreds of people he had dully watched pass through the line of sight of the quad's security camera. No, the only image that seemed able to penetrate his mind was his brother on a gurney with his back burned and torn. It had been a quick progression for his imagination to transplant that face he knew so well onto one of the charred corpses he'd witnessed earlier. It had been so close…

"Don."

Startled, he looked up to see Megan, approaching him with a stack of papers to add to the ones he was already buried in. "What's up?"

"We got back a report from the tech guys; apparently, the explosive device wasn't an explosive at all."

He sat up, wrinkling his brow. "What?"

" They identified it as… let me see if I can say this without butchering it… they said it was a 20 farad dielectric capacitor."

She offered him a picture when his look became more puzzled; he took it gladly. "And that is?"

"They're used in electronics, though this one was a pretty big one, probably used in some sort of industrial environment. There aren't many this big out there, let me tell you."

At last, something to be pleased about. "Good, good, so we can run a trace on it, right?"

Megan's expression was one that promised disappointment. "The problem is that they don't make them like this anymore. This model is from the early seventies, probably one of the last ones produced."

Don eyeballed the cylinder-like adversary in the picture. "Why'd they stop production? Maybe some sort of fault… say, a nasty habit of exploding?"

"No such luck, trooper," she said with a smile. "Some sort of environmental problem; I don't have details."

He sighed and handed the photo back to her. "All right. Well, maybe we can run it by Charlie; he's bound to think of something that could help."

In an instant, her smile disappeared; she laid the papers on his desk and sat on the corner, watching him closely. "How is Charlie?"

Don shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't seen him since this afternoon." He looked at his watch. "Three hours. How much trouble can Charlie get into in three hours?"

"He got into plenty of trouble in a matter of seconds earlier," she countered deftly. Don nodded, conceding the point, and ran his hands nervously through his hair. "You should go home. He's gonna need someone to talk to; he's not used to this sort of thing."

Don's reply came more quickly than she expected. "Well, the problem is, I don't even know if I'm okay with it yet. And I didn't even know them; I don't know how--" He made as if to continue, but he instead let out his breath slowly and looked away.

Megan used the gentlest tone she could muster. "You know, Don, if you ever need to talk, I—"

Don seemed to collect himself; there was something in his eyes that let her know when a discussion was over, and this one was definitely leaving with little grace. "Yeah, well, thanks," he said hastily. Standing, he fished his keys from among the stacks of papers and grabbed the ones that Megan had presented him with. "I'm going to go give these to Charlie. I'll see you later, okay?"

He made for the elevator as fast as he could, feeling the color rising in his cheeks like a schoolboy with a crush as he felt her eyes following him down the hall.

On second thought, he'd take the stairs.


	4. Superman's Dead

Thank you, loyal fans, for your detailed reviews!

Have fun with this one, guys.

**4. Superman's Dead**

"**What are fears but voices airy?  
Whispering harm where harm is not.  
And deluding the unwary  
Till the fatal bolt is shot!"**

**-- William Wordsworth**

The house looked unusually gloomy and grim as Don pulled into the drive; the only light he could see burned peeked feebly through the garage window, right where he'd hoped it wouldn't be. Sighing, he cut the engine and sat for a minute, watching the familiar shadow bustling around inside. Briefly, he considered returning to the office, but the word 'evasive' drifted lazily through his mind. He shook his head; you knew you were in a bad way when you started to profile yourself. Hesitantly, he pushed the door open, grabbing Megan's papers off the passenger seat and making his way toward the garage.

Unfortunately, he spotted both things that had been causing his recent uneasiness within seconds of his arrival. Charlie worked feverishly at a chalkboard, his back to Don. His baggy T-shirt did a fairly good job of hiding the bandages that criss-crossed the area, but a few snaked out of his sleeve and down his arm, betraying their own presence. Surrounding him like flies, covering every table, hanging off every surface that couldn't be written on, were hundreds of pictures of the ruined quad. Eyes from within the rubble followed Don accusingly as he approached his brother, making something deep inside him want to run.

"Charlie?" he ventured cautiously.

The chalk stopped its advance across the chalkboard, then resumed. "Hey, Don."

The tone worried him, but he ignored it. "I brought you some stuff about the explosive. Turns out it wasn't an explosive at all, it was a—" He paused to consult the papers in his hand.

"A 20 farad dielectric capacitor," Charlie finished for him. He gestured to some scattered papers on a table to his right. "Megan faxed me a copy."

Don blinked, then took it in stride. "Right, right. Well it looks like you're working on something. You got something for us?"

Charlie nodded. "I'm determining the bounded vector of the device used to trigger it."

"Say what?" Don asked.

Turning, Charlie thought for a moment. Don was relieved to see some passion in his eyes. "A capacitor is kind of like a balloon. Each time you run electricity through a capacitor, it fills up with a bit of charge, just like the balloon fills up with air. But the capacitor can only hold so much charge, and after that safe limit is passed, it can…" he gestured vaguely at the assembled pictures, "…well, pop."

"Okay," Don acknowledged. "So how does that help us?"

"Well, it doesn't," admitted Charlie. "Not in and of itself. But this particular capacitor was huge, and therefore its threshold for holding charge was quite high. There are only a few devices that could provide that sort of power, and because of losing power to wires, it would have to be fairly close. I've created an algorithm to map the area outside the blast radius but inside the limits of the charge transfer to identify who was in the position to set it off."

"Wait," interrupted Don incredulously. "You're saying our guy was _at the quad_ when this thing went off?"

"He'd have to be," Charlie replied. "The thing is, I've run it twice, and the only things in the range I've generated were the plumbers, and I don't see how or why—"

Suddenly, he stopped, his form going rigid. His eyes were fixed on one of the papers on the desk. Don had seen that expression before, and it meant one thing: bad news.

"What is it, Charlie?"

He looked up slowly. "We could have a much bigger problem on our hands than we anticipated." Grabbing the papers, he brandished one at Don, who took it.

"Am I supposed to guess how to pronounce this?"

"Polychlorinated biphenyls," Charlie prompted. "Larry told me about them once—potent carcinogens, fairly harmless if ingested through the lungs. However, once it gets into the water supply…" he pointed out a position on his map well within the blast radius. "…say, the college water main, it can be dangerous."

Don looked up sharply. "Dangerous? How dangerous are we talking?"

Charlie's look was grim. "Deadly."

Shaking his head, Don fished in his pockets for his cell phone. "Come on," he said. "I'll drive you to the office – you're gonna have to explain this to the rest of the team."

He swept out the door into the growing dark, and Charlie followed. "What about CalSci? Nobody can drink that water."

Ushering Charlie towards the car, e flipped open his phone. "I'll get a team down there as fast as I can, but we have to—"

Something about the desperate way the tires screeched made him look up just in time to see the black SUV come to an ungraceful halt in front of the house. He barely had time to register the purpose of the gun butts poking out of the tinted windows before—

"CHARLIE, GET DOWN!"

His words were lost in the roar of firing automatics, and Charlie merely turned to see his brother in mid-tackle. The earth hit him hard in the back, Don's weight knocking the breath from him in an instant. There he stayed, gasping, his racing heart pounding in time to the firing guns in the grip of an intense fear.

At last, the gunshots were replaced with empty clicks and swears of frustration. The car sped off into the night, accompanied by excited whoops from its passengers, and disappeared.

There was a terrible silence.

Then, painfully slowly, shaking fingers reached out, closing around the cheerfully glowing cell phone that had been discarded in the chaos. The fingers left grotesque crimson smears on the keys as they quietly dialed 9-1-1.


	5. Ashes, Ashes

**5. Ashes, Ashes…**

"**Nothing travels faster than light, with the possible exception of bad news, which follows its own rules." – Douglas Adams**

Their footsteps echoed ominously through the cavernous room as they picked their way carefully through the stacks of ruined machines, torn conveyor belts, and charred debris. The factory might have been grand in its time, but now, abandoned, half-destroyed, and coated in three decades worth of decay, its prime had clearly passed. Bats flapped discreetly as they were disturbed on their perches, the general gloom that hung about the place suiting them nicely.

"Can you remind me exactly why we're here?" Colby asked nervously. "This place is giving me a feeling I haven't had since Iraq."

"Relax," David replied with a smile. "Nobody's been in this factory for thirty years. Don just wants us to check this place out for the thing we found at the quad. He might have gotten it here."

"Right. Well in that case, I don't think we were the first ones here."

David perked up. "How do you mean?"

He knelt down, pointing to what had caught his attention: a footprint, a dark silhouette in an otherwise uninterrupted sea of dust.

"Looks pretty fresh," he remarked. "Maybe two days ago. And here's another one." Stepping carefully over the shoeprint, he located its twin, printed neatly in the grime a few feet away.

"Well, let's see where they go," David suggested, following Colby as he tracked the prints through the room./ After nearly fifteen minutes of following the confused, winding trail, the prints disappeared, leaving them at a dead end.

"I don't get it," Colby said, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "From the way they were all over the place, I'd say our guy was definitely looking for something. But here they just… vanish."

"I think he found what he was looking for," David said. From his inside coat pocket, he pulled a picture of the device at the quad. Taking the flashlight from his belt, he clicked it on, suddenly illuminating a huge array of very familiar equipment. There were perhaps fifty capacitors lined up in a neat, interconnected grid, like kernels of corn on the cob. The years had taken their toll on some of them, large holes in their cylindrical bodies giving a clear view of their insides. In fact, only a few of the capacitors looked to be in any shape to function at all. Flashlight combing the rows, the beam at last fell upon a gap in the ranks where a kernel once had been.

"I guess we know where he got it," Colby said.

David shook his head, suspending celebration. "Not _it_," he said. "_Them_. There's enough space here for two of these things."

Colby's eyebrows went up. "He took one for a backup?"

From his coat pocket, David retrieved his cell phone and flipped it open. "More like for an encore." He snapped a picture and sent it to Don and Megan, and, as an afterthought, to Charlie as well. "Charlie's predicted crimes before; maybe he can tell us what our guy will do with this one."

Colby sighed, doubtful. "That's gonna be hard without a suspect, a motive, or an MO."

David nodded and went to put his cell phone away, but it started buzzing frantically while it was still in his hand. Shrugging to Colby, he answered.

"Agent Sinclair." His face relaxed into an expression of recognition. "Hey, Megan. Yeah, Colby's here; we were just checking out the—"

He stopped, and Colby watched with dismay as his face fell, his eyes darkening in the shadow of whatever burden was being laid upon him.

"All right," he replied, suddenly businesslike. "We'll be right there." He took off at a run towards the exit.

"Hey, what was that about?" Colby asked, halfheartedly following his lead. "What's going on?"

He didn't get an answer until they reached the car again. Slamming his door, David revved the engine not even bothering with a seat belt, and shot off down the street towards the office. Distractedly, he punched on the radio, tuning it into the police band. Out of the speakers blurted inappropriately calm words for the news they brought.

"Shots fired at the Eppes residence," reported the operator. "Agent Eppes is down."

_P.S.- Was it really that obvious that Don would take the fall? Can someone tell me where I wrote that, cuz I'm doing a really bad job of maintaining suspense if it was that easy to figure out!!_


	6. Nolens Occultus

I apologize for the factual error in the previous chapter; Colby served in Afghanistan, not Iraq.

The title translates roughly as 'unwillingly hidden'. If you are a Latin expert, please, give me a break... it's just for show, okay?

Enjoy!

**6. Nolens Occultus**

"**Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. The fearful are caught as often as the bold." – Helen Keller**

Blinding lights flashed through tinted windows, still threatening to blind him despite the obstacle; yet he did not avert his eyes, even long after the sight they saw had been left far behind. Ambulance lights were replaced by city lights, the house replaced with towering skyscrapers and office blocks, all darkened, looming, vacant, and still, he watched with a deep fear the figure in the middle of it all, a pale, drawn face disappearing behind ambulance doors…

"Charlie? Charlie, we're here."

He heard Megan, saw her sitting beside him with an expression like someone had died, which, he reasoned, could be so; he hadn't seen Don clearly before they'd torn them apart, stuck him in this car on a road to nowhere. As gently as she knew how, she urged him out of the car, leading him by the arm through glass doors, down glass halls, into glass rooms with cold chairs where she told him to wait until they could figure this out. He blinked, and she was back; she was sitting in a chair the wrong way around, the way _he_ always would… He shook his head and tried to focus on her words.

"…going to be all right, but you have to tell me what happened."

What had happened? He wasn't sure he even knew. "We were just coming out of the garage… they just drove up and started shooting…"

She sat back a bit. "A drive-by. Did you see anyone? Do you remember what kind of car it was?"

"I didn't… I don't…" He stopped and shook his head. "Where's Don?"

Megan sighed. "Don's at the hospital right now, Charlie."

"When can I see him?"

"This is a lot more personal than we thought, Charlie. Don would want you to stay here, where it's safe."

Something in the way he said it made him remember. "CalSci," he blurted suddenly. "Somebody has to warn them, they can't drink the water there. The polychlorinated biphenyls… people could die, okay? Don was going to call, to get a team there, but…" He closed his eyes and tried not to flinch at the gunshots in his head. "I can go, I can sort it out…"

Megan gave him a puzzled, pained look. "Look, Charlie, I understand you're shaken up right now. We want to catch this guy just as much as you do. But our jobs are made a whole lot easier if we know where you are and that you're safe. I need you to stay here until I get back, okay? Can you do that?"

Very slowly, he nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly.

She stood, watching him with concern in her eyes. "I've got two agents posted outside this room. If you need anything, you can ask them, okay?"

Rising from his chair, he crossed to the whiteboard he'd noticed and uncapped a marker, poised to write.

"What I need," he muttered, "is to think."

The door to the office shut behind him, and the floodgates in his mind burst open, leaving him with nowhere to hide as it all came crashing down. He was glad no one was there to see him cry.

Then a soft ringing interrupted his reflections: his phone. He fished it from his pocket and flipped it open to see the text message he'd received. It read:

15-9-1-10-21-13-6-16-2-9-24-10-11-10-5-5-10-11

For a moment, he paused. Then, with a steady hand, he wiped the board clean and started anew. Possibilities and solutions splayed out across the surface; the code was actually embarrassingly easy, a simple delay and stagger pattern that fell apart before him in minutes. Scribbling out the translation, he stepped back to behold his handiwork, and his stomach went suddenly cold. Across the board were written the words:

U R NEXT

CHARLES EPPES


	7. Standard Deviation

**7. Standard Deviation**

"**You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means he uses to frighten you." ****-- Eric Hoffer**

The elevator doors opened with a delicate ring onto the office, the first things out of them being a pair of crutches whose rubber tips did not agree at all with the polished floor. Nevertheless, their passenger seemed confident enough, confident… or desperate. Making his way through the buzzing office, he inspired many comments and even more looks. At last, he found a familiar face.

"Don?" Megan looked him up and down, taking in the crutches and his half-bent right leg with a suspicious expression. "I thought you weren't supposed to be out until tomorrow."

"I wasn't," he replied.

"Ah. Well, I'm glad you're here. We just got ballistics off the shells found on the lawn: AK-47, standard issue. All we know at this point is that the car was black, so we couldn't even begin to get license plates. Oh, and I got your message; Colby and David are out looking for your father. They should be back soon."

He nodded approvingly. "Good, I appreciate it." Looking around the office, he seemed to be scanning faces. "And Charlie?"

Her gaze dropped to the floor; Don didn't have to be an FBI agent to know what that meant.

"What?" he prompted.

"He's in the war room," she said hesitantly. "He's been there since we picked him up. I tried to stop him, but I think it's some kind of post-traumatic stress reaction…"

"Stop him from doing what, exactly?"

She finally met his eyes. "You should talk to him. The only thing I can get him to do is ask for you."

Slowly, he nodded, and she made for her cubicle. Continuing down the hall, he approached the conference room, coming to a halt in the doorway. The view it afforded him of the room stopped her dead in her tracks.

The whiteboard that stood at the far end of the room was, as usual, covered with a stream of symbols and variables that he could only pretend to understand. However, the formula didn't end there; the windows were covered with it, messy scrawl invading the panes. From here, the numbers flowed down the sills, dripping down the walls and congealing in pools at their junctures with the floor. The lines ran around the perimeter, a giant vortex of calculations in circles that slowly got smaller and smaller, converging on a single point in the center of the room. Perhaps four feet square, this bare patch was barely big enough for the person it enclosed.

In the middle of the maelstrom sat Charlie; cross-legged, he looked possessed, his eyes wide and yet unseeing. In one hand, he held a marker, nearly inkless with its recent usage. In the other, he clutched his cell phone.

Her quiet observations were interrupted by Charlie, who finally seemed to have realized his presence.

"Don?" he said softly.

"Hey, buddy," he replied as calmly as he could manage. "Looks like you've been busy." Understatement of the year.

Charlie just stared, blinking as if he'd never seen him before.

"Well, this changes things," he muttered. Rising, he paced around the room, examining a section of equation on the window with interest and amending some of the symbols written there. Charlie's attention otherwise occupied, Don worked his way slowly to the whiteboard, across which the letters U R NEXT CHARLES EPPES had been scribbled amongst a heap of numbers.

"You mind telling me what this is all about?" Don asked.

"It's just game theory," Charlie said, turning to behold Don at the whiteboard. "Oh, that. That," he said, "I received a little less than three hours ago. Megan was right when she said this has gotten a lot more personal." He turned back to the window and resumed his corrections.

Crossing the room, Don approached him, noting the somewhat crazed light in his eyes with worry.

"Hey, look, Charlie, what do you say you take a break? It looks like you've got plenty to explain to me already."

"No, I'm good," Charlie replied. "Since this is personal, I took the liberty of combing your previous cases for suspects. All I've actually managed to do is match our guy's movements to an existing MO. I haven't even begun to map out the possible resolutions at a quantum level; I haven't even developed a weighting system for the variables yet."

"Hold on, hold on," said Don, grabbing Charlie's wrist to keep him from working. "What MO did you match it with?"

Charlie closed his eyes and sighed. "Do you remember a few months ago when you did that case on the wiped out bank accounts that suddenly got very personal? We tried to use a backscatter program, but they sent an encoded message telling us it was a setup?"

Don let go of his wrist and stared. "If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting—"

Charlie shrugged and turned back to the window. "Let's face it, Don; this whole case looks exactly like the standard operating procedure of the Russian mob."


	8. False Sense of Security

Hey guys! I finally figured out where this story is going. No more abstract touchy-feely scenes... I promise.

As always, enjoy.

**8. False Sense of Security**

"**Men are so simple and yield so readily to the desires of the moment that he who will trick will always find another who will suffer to be tricked." – Niccolo Machiavelli**

Due to the heavily 'decorated' state of the conference room and Charlie's insistence that the janitors leave the equation alone, the war room had been moved to a different conference room, and yet everyone seemed to be settling in quite well. Don sat slumped in an office chair, his injured leg propped up on the table, reclining with his fingers laced behind his head. Against the wall leant Megan, arms crossed. Both of them were staring with unbridled confusion and curiosity at the incredibly lifelike and detailed pair of zebras that the LCD was dutifully displaying.

"This," said Don, "had better be good."

Charlie nodded. "Oh, it is. You guys are always asking for analogies, so I thought some visual aid was in order."

Don shrugged. "Fair enough. What have you got?"

"Well," started Charlie, slipping easily into his element, "I recycled an old equation on herd analysis and behavioral patterning to try to determine a connection between our guy and any of your previous cases, and boy, did I find one. The data corresponded directly with—"

"The Russian mob," finished Don in a displeased tone, tapping the desk nervously with his knuckles. "We know that."

"Exactly," Charlie commended him. "And this is especially good for us, because now we can apply their known pattern of behavior to previous events to determine future ones."

Megan's eyebrows went up. "Okay, tell us about the zebras."

"Well, if we take these two zebras and overlap them—" he hit a button on the remote in his hand, causing one zebra to transpose itself onto the other, "—we can observe the similarities between their stripe patterns, which might lead us to conclude that they are from the same family and, most likely, the same herd. By figuring this out, we can, for example, use recorded migratory routes to predict where these two might be at any given time of the year, because those are governed by the herd, not the individual."

"Okay, sure," agreed Don. "The Russians do things a certain way. What does that give us?"

"Do you remember the backscatter case?"

Don waved towards a file on the desk in front of him. "Yeah, Charlie, I just re-read the file."

"The key to that case was distraction tactics. The Russians used the threats—" he clicked up a picture of the translated text message, "—and the attacks—" he gestured to Don, "—to distract us from the real target, which was the bank. Based on the parallels I observed between that case and this one, we can safely assume…"

"You're not their real target," finished Megan, realization dawning in her eyes.

Don seemed skeptical. "Well, all right, then what is?"

Holding up his hands, Charlie attempted to stem the flow of intellectual bullets, ready to poke a billion holes in his theory. "Relax," he said. "I already ran a target selection algorithm to predict the next attack. David said that two capacitors had been taken from the factory, so I weighted the values to pick out locations attractive to that mode of attack: high population areas with plumbing work scheduled where you—" he pointed to Don, "—are most likely to be this afternoon."

"Right, they would want to keep up the ruse that they're targeting us," Don confirmed. "What did you come up with?"

"Lincoln Park," Charlie replied, and a picture of a fountain-adorned courtyard appeared on the screen. "It's got lots of traffic, the fountain is scheduled to be serviced this week, AND—" he approached the screen and pointed out a sign laden with foreign characters, "—it has your favorite Chinese take-out place right across the way."

Don was nodding approvingly, his eyes scanning the image intensely. "Sounds good," he said. "We're going to need to evacuate the area. Do you know when this is gonna go down?"

Charlie rubbed his chin. "Based on my accident frequency calculations… probably around four o'clock."

"All right, good." Looking down at his watch, Don frowned. "That gives us about two hours. Megan, call local PD and have them block off all roads leading to that location. I'm going to go help handle evacuation; I'll get Colby and David to meet me there."

Gathering his crutches, he made for the door, and Charlie made to follow. Don turned and shot him a look.

"You're staying here," he ordered. "If this really is the mob, you are **not** getting involved."

"But—" Charlie started to protest.

"No," Don interrupted. "Charlie, you were almost shot less than twelve hours ago. You need to take a break, buddy."

"Look who's talking," said Charlie, his mind riled up for debate. "You were shot less than twelve hours ago. You shouldn't even be out of the hospital yet, let alone in the field. You haven't slept in a day and a half. At this point, I feel I'm more qualified to be out there, risking my ass."

"I don't have time for this, Charlie. I need to know you're safe, and that means you stay here."

Not eliciting an immediate response, he turned to the agents that had been posted outside the door.

"No one comes through this door until I get back. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," came the brisk reply.

The door swung shut behind him, and Charlie slumped back into a chair, watching with quiet anxiety as Don limped away and disappeared behind cold elevator doors.


	9. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Thanks for the reviews, guys. It's nice to see people getting into the action!

Sorry, Claudette, if the plot isn't complicated enough yet, 'yet' being the key word in that sentence.

Read and be happy! :-)

**9.1. One Step Forward…**

"**If the radiance of a thousand suns / were to burst into the sky / that would be like / the splendor of the Mighty One and I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds." – J. Robert Oppenheimer**

Sitting in the cramped lobby of Noodle King, Don surveyed the entirety of Lincoln Park plaza. Less than fifteen minutes ago, it had been filled with people, a picture-perfect, bustling metropolis. The FBI's evacuation plan had cleared people as effectively from the scene as the capacitor, sitting in a handbag on the fountain's edge, might have. Pulling a walkie-talkie from his belt, he checked the area one last time.

"This is Eppes; I'm all clear. David, you got anything?"

The words echoed through the abandoned square, bouncing back to him as distorted reflections before another voice broke the silence.

"Nothing here, Don."

"Colby?"

"Nothing, Don."

The words should have comforted him, but the mangled echoes only served to add to the adrenaline in his veins. They had evacuated not only the blast radius, but also the area in which Charlie had calculated that the activation mechanism would have to be located. With that area clear, there would be no way for the capacitor to go off, Charlie hand reasoned.

"All right," he radioed. "Let's move in, guys, but be careful."

He watched armored figures in bomb squad gear slip out of several otherwise lifeless buildings, stalking across the plaza from cover point to cover point. Charlie had grudgingly postulated as to the paths the wires might be laid down in, and it was to these areas the team darted, searching for a means of disarming the capacitor, and yet…

"They're not here," came the frustrated report, crackling through the walkie-talkie's speaker.

Don's brow wrinkled. "What?"

"The capacitor isn't hooked up to anything, Agent Eppes."

Squinting to make out the details, Don watched as one of the technicians knelt down in front of the device, plucking something off the surface. A look of embarrassed confirmation crossed his face, the kind of look you might adopt when you're told the answer to a question that was amazingly obvious, despite the fact you'd puzzled over it for hours.

"You'd better take a look at this, agents."

Don grabbed his crutches and scrambled up, arriving at the fountain, huffing and puffing, a minute later. Sighing, the bomb technician held out to him a note, which he took hesitantly. In bright red sharpie was scrawled one word.

BOOM

Handing back the note, Don shook his head in disbelief.

"This was all a setup."

**9.2. …Two Steps Back**

"**He would make a lovely corpse." – Charles Dickens**

The return to the office was not a triumphant one, nor was the elevator they shared filled with happy FBI agents, least of all Don. In the corner he sulked, still sour from his haphazard, botched explanation to the angry shop owners of Lincoln Park plaza as to why the FBI had shut down a major commercial center for no apparent reason.

"I don't get it," said David, pressing the button for the 23rd floor. "Why would they waste their only other weapon?"

"Because it's probably not their only other weapon," answered Don, following the light as it climbed up the list of floor numbers: three… four… five…

"Maybe they were testing us, to see how much we knew," suggested Megan.

"In that case, we just lost the element of surprise," admitted Colby.

Seven… eight… nine…

Don sighed in frustration. "Yeah, well, I just want to see how this figures into Charlie's 'distraction tactics' explanation."

The ring of a cell phone interrupted their conversation, and Don dug it out of his pocket. A quick glance at caller ID afforded him a name, and he answered it angrily, glad to have someone to properly vent on.

"Charlie, if you're calling to tell me you just figured out Lincoln Park was a dud, you're too late, buddy. Mind explaining to me how that works?"

There was a long pause, and then a strange voice with a Russian accent answered.

"I'm sorry, Charles is unavailable at the moment. Can I help you?"

A knot of fear settled in his stomach, and his team looked to him at the tone in which he replied. "Who is this?"

"My name is Anton Sidorov. I am a friend of Yuri Koverchenko."

Don rubbed at his eyes. This couldn't be happening. "What do you want from me?"

There came a little laugh from the other end. "Oh, you overestimate your value, Agent Eppes. No, it is Charles's talents we need at the moment. But I suppose after we are done with him, you can have him back… for a price."

"Name it."

"You will release Yuri Koverchenko from custody and drop all charges against him. You will also raise 5 million dollars and deliver it –alone— at an address we will provide you with in time. I _would_ advise you not to involve the authorities, but that would be somewhat impossible, now wouldn't it, Agent Eppes? And, as I'm sure you'll discover, the government might not be the best of allies in this case, yes?"

"Hold on," started Don, "what—"

"You have twenty-four hours, agent."

"Let me talk to him, at least," Don pleaded.

"Certainly… when Koverchenko is released."

The call was terminated. Frowning at the phone, Don barely noticed the 23 light up on the floor list. The elevator doors opened with their usual ring, and Don poised his crutches to exit the elevator, but was stopped dead in his tracks by what he saw.

The office lay in ruins, pieces of cubicles and shards of glass crunching underfoot at he managed to exit the elevator. A breeze through the window might have been pleasant, if it hadn't been sneaking in through a line of neat bullet holes in the window, toying listlessly with the blood-spattered paper-stack innards of overturned filing cabinets. Here and there, smashed computers sparked in mechanical death throes. Buried beneath the wreckage were several inert forms, one of which Colby checked.

"Dead," he said simply; it was all he could manage.

"What the hell is going on?" Megan asked.

Picking his way across the rubble, Don ignored the question, coming to a halt in front of the wrecked conference room, observing the three clean bullet holes in the glass and the pool of blood with a sinking feeling that threatened to take his legs from underneath him. Somewhere in the building a distant alarm began to sound.

"They have him," said Don, covering his eyes, and falling back against the wall. "They have Charlie."


	10. Habeas Corpus

As chapters get more involved, it takes me longer to write and revise. Sorry, guys!

If anybody thinks they know what's going to happen, don't post it, okay? Save what little suspense I can manage to create alone!

Enjoy!

**10. Habeas Corpus**

"**When you discover your mission, you will feel its demand. It will fill you with enthusiasm and a burning desire to get to work on it." – W. Clement Stone**

"Donnie?"

The familiar voice broke him suddenly out of a long and winding reverie; looking up, he saw Alan approaching, arms laden with brown paper bags and a puzzled expression.

"Hey, Dad," he replied hastily, trying to collect himself; his recent residency at the office had taken its toll on him. His cheeks held the shadow of two days worth of bristles, his hair mussed and unkempt, and his shirt hung off his unfed figure with a miserable lack of dignity – he had abandoned his tie long ago. With so much to correct, he decided not to bother.

"Donnie, what's going on?" Alan asked, an annoyed tone creeping into his voice. "I'm in the middle of grocery shopping, and suddenly two FBI agents show up and tell me you've been shot and could I please come with them." Gaze falling on Don's bandaged leg, his eyes narrowed. "Are you supposed to be working this soon?"

A sigh escaped him, and he rubbed at his eyes distractedly. "I'm fine Dad; I'm just glad you're okay is all."

"You don't look glad," he countered, depositing his shopping on Don's desk and drawing up a chair. "Where's Charlie? Is he all right?"

This was the moment he'd been dreading, ever since he himself had found out. "Look, Dad, about Charlie—"

"Don," interrupted a voice, and he felt like kissing David as he appeared as if on cue. "The techs just revived your computer; it turns out Charlie wasn't the only thing they took."

All amorous feelings disappeared from him as he watched his father's reaction.

"What?" he stuttered incredulously. "Charlie's been—"

"Look, Dad, I'll be back, okay?" Don said, avoiding the conversation with the proficiency of a master. Rising, he shot David a look and followed him through the office, which was slowly being rebuilt by a herd of janitors and contractors. Around one reconstructed cubicle were crowded several computer technicians, and it was for this desk they made. Pointing to a laptop computer in their midst, David briefed him.

"All right, so they tossed the office and found your login info, which they used to get into our database. The tech guys compiled a list of pages visited." He handed Don a sheet of paper, filled from margin to margin with…

"Addresses?" Don said with a raised brow. "Did you run them down?"

"Yeah." David was suddenly quiet.

"And…?" Don prompted, gesturing.

"They were all military installations – military installations with nuclear capabilities."

Don looked up sharply. "That means—"

"This is no bank scam," David said grimly. "We're talking about possible nuclear attack."

Leaning back against the cubicle window, his eyes flicked back and forth between the shot-up conference room and the computer screen. He felt like he was being torn in two; he rubbed his forehead in frustration, pondering.

"Okay," he said at last. "Get me the Secretary of Defense on the phone; he's about to have a very, VERY bad day."

Nodding, David moved to oblige him. From the conference room, another voice called his name.

"Hey, Don, you'd better take a look at this." Colby's voice was wary, annoying Don with it's sense of urgency; his mobility as well as his pride had been absconded with when they'd handed him the crutches. Working his way over, he observed with little interest the computer desktop that was being projected onto the wall.

"I've been watching all of Charlie's accounts, just like you asked, and I just got a hit."

A shot of adrenaline ran through him. "Can we trace it?"

"I don't think so," Colby replied, and his heart sank once more. He pointed out a line of text on the screen. "Charlie logged onto his National Security Association account a few minutes ago."

Staring at the line, Don felt something inside his head click. "They want to get into a military base armed with nukes; they need someone with security clearance to get them in."

"They shot up an FBI office, Don," Colby pointed out, skeptical. "These guys have proved they don't have a problem with firepower. If destruction is the objective, why don't they just take it by force?"

"I don't know, but we gotta find out."

David appeared in the doorway, flanked by Megan; he held out a phone to Don.

"Secretary of Defense for you," he said; Don took the phone and pushed past him into the hall.

"Hello? Yes this is Agent Don Eppes of the FBI…"

"So the Lincoln Park plaza attack was a distraction for a distraction," observed David, crossing his arms.

"Their tactics are getting more complicated," Megan said. "Abduction isn't outside their MO, but a staged bombing to cover an abduction?"

David sighed. "You know, as much as we're worried about Charlie, we have to keep in mind that this is just a distraction."

"Or not, according to Don," suggested Colby.

"Either way, if the distractions are getting more complicated, then whatever they're trying to cover up must be getting more serious," said Megan.

Suddenly, Don re-entered, red-faced and agitated; he tossed the phone onto the desk and ran his hands through his hair.

"That was Washington," he told them. "They've just instructed us and the entire Bureau to drop the case."


	11. In the Eyes of the Hare

**11. In the Eyes of the Hare**

**"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear." ****-- H.P. Lovecraft**

Smoke curled lazily through the dark, illuminated briefly as it passed through an intruding beam of light. Charlie watched enviously as it slipped through a hole in the window and fled. For the hundredth time, his eyes darted around the room, alighting on three shadowed figures seated around a rickety card table. They themselves were eyeing each other warily, scrutinizing each individual component of their expressions to accurately determine who was bluffing.

Following the plumes of smoke drifting from their lit cigars, he observed the TV, a small black-and-white set perched precariously on a bowed cardboard box between him and his captors. Besides the broken window, it was the only source of light in the cramped apartment; also, in the absence of the men's conversation, it provided the only sound present. The screen showed a man, dressed entirely in black, approaching a metal detector, which tripped almost as soon as he stepped into it. A bored-looking security guard came over, armed with a search wan and an unenthusiastic expression.

"Please remove any metallic items you are carrying: keys, loose change—"

His spiel was suddenly interrupted as the man pulled open his coat to reveal just about every firearm known to mankind strapped to his torso. The security guard's eyes went wide.

"Holy shit!" he managed, before a punch by Keanu Reeves sent him flying. Hearing the conflict, one of the Russians glanced back at the TV in time to see the shooting begin; he laughed and turned back to the game.

Charlie, too, was watching the set carefully, although not because of any affinity for _The Matrix_; on the contrary, he had to push aside memories of the assault on the office brought on by the rattle of gunfire. No, his attention was instead held by the slim, silver cell phone lying ignored on the box beside the TV. If only he could reach it… he closed his eyes and prayed for an opportunity, some distraction to cover his actions. He felt the sudden urge to laugh himself; he was starting to think like a Russian mobster after only three hours in their company.

Just hen, there broke out some chatter in Russian. Eyes flicking hopefully to the gathering at the table, Charlie didn't have to speak Russian to decipher the suddenly angry expressions worn by two of the players: someone had cheated.

The exchange in Russian became more and more heated, one player insistently denying the others' accusations until one of them grabbed the table and flipped it, sending cards and shot glasses flying and pinning the other one quite permanently and gruesomely to the wall. The impact rocked the apartment, jarring the cardboard box just enough to make the cell phone fall; the clatter it made was lost in the angry, interrogating shouts of the cheated players.

As quickly as he could manage with two hands bound behind his back, Charlie crawled forward, biting back a reaction to the pain flaring in his arm; the shot at the office had been close… too close. Nevertheless, he worked his way forward, inching closer and closer to his salvation. Reaching it, he checked to make sure the group was still arguing fitfully before pinning it to the floor with his chin and beginning to slide it back to his previous position.

A sense of urgency was instilled in him as he realized a moment later that the argument was coming to an end. Hastily, he curled himself into the pain-ridden ball they had left him in, concealing the phone beneath him as one of his captors made his way towards him. He lay perfectly still as the man looked him up and down; then the Russian tutted, turned, and adjusted the volume on the television. Charlie's muscles unclenched themselves, and he relaxed as the man moved off to help his comrade collect the ruins of the table.

Rolling over, he groped around with his hands and found the phone; fingers studying the surface, he oriented it beneath him and held down the key he postulated to be number 1. The dull dialing tone was muffled by his body, as was the distant ringing one the other end. So his heart almost beat right out of his chest when, on full speaker volume, a familiar voice said, "Eppes."

An explosion on the television masked the sound, but Charlie knew he would not be so lucky next time. Scrambling around, he tried to get his mouth as close to the speaker as he could.

"Ssssh," he hissed quietly. "It's me."

"Charlie?" came the loud reply. "Where are you? Are you hurt? I—"

No happy action scene blaring from the TV could cover up that racket. The Russians turned, taking in their captive and his newly acquired means of communication with a mix of blind rage and surprise. One of them drew his gun, but the other one slapped it aside, and the shot landed somewhere in the wall; to their annoyance, they needed him alive. Flipping the gun around, he struck Charlie a good blow across the face with the butt; something went snap, crackle, pop, and he could only gasp and moan wordlessly as his dislocated jaw flexed uselessly.

"That should keep you from talking, yes?" inquire done of the Russians with a small smile. Standing, he took the phone from the other one, the device still vibrating with Don's alarmed shouts. He looked from it to Charlie and back again, observing with interest the pleading in his eyes. Then, very gently, he set the device on the ground and, not so gently, proceeded to smash it with his heel.

"Bring him," came the order. "We're leaving."

Head still spinning from the pain in his jaw, Charlie barely registered the strong hands heaving him up. The last thing he _did_ comprehend was the distant, garbled sounds of his brother's voice, blaring through the tortured speaker of his smashed and yet still-functioning cell phone.


	12. Minutes to Midnight

Things are getting pretty crazy for the Eppes brothers, and they're about to get crazier!

Read , smile, and review!

**12. Minutes to Midnight**

"**Action and care will in time wear down the strongest frame, but guilt and melancholy are poisons of quick dispatch." – Thomas Paine**

Three well-placed kicks later, the door flew open with a bang, leaving a small dent in the wall at the point of impact. Don was inside in a second, just behind Megan, sweeping the small, gloomy space for any sign of life. His wandering eyes found none. .

"Clear," she called halfheartedly to the team behind him, letting him join her in his inspection of the dump they'd infiltrated. Crutching forward slowly, he surveyed the room, taking in with little interest the general run-down feeling it afforded him. Ripped and stained curtains fluttered nervously in the breeze creeping in through a broken window; across the room, there lay the ruins of a card table, smashed glasses and half-finished cigars among the wreckage. To his right, a small TV pounded out the chords of suspenseful music as Thomas Anderson ran down a grimy hallway; the chords pounding in time with the viewer's heart until Neo found a door, threw it open, turned, and—

--BANG.

Don's foot came down on something with a quiet crunch. Tearing his gaze from the television screen, he lifted his foot to behold the shattered remains of Charlie's trusty cell phone, the same phone that had led them here in the first place… and the same phone through which Don had killed any chance of finding Charlie here. Shaking his head, he knelt awkwardly and retrieved it gingerly; its antenna hung limply from its body, a tangle of wires and smashed plastic. The guilt burst from him then, consuming him in waves, and not just the guilt for this incident; this whole case, Charlie's ordeal, was beginning more and more suspiciously like his fault.

"Don," called Megan. After a moment's consideration of the phone in his hand, Don looked up. She had apparently pulled apart some of the wreckage in search of evidence and boy, had they found some.

The man was definitely Russian, perhaps twenty-five. The only clue as to his location in the rubble was a faint streak of crimson on the wall where he had fallen against it, though the smear had obviously been cleaned up considerably, if hastily. The table had caught him in the neck when it had flipped, and his throat seemed collapsed, the bluish tinge in his skin affirming the possibility of asphyxiation; and if that hadn't killed him, the three shots to the chest he had sustained would most likely have helped him along. Don's jaw tightened; he suddenly wanted to smile, but wouldn't let himself.

"Dissention in the ranks?" he managed to suggest in what he hoped was an offhand tone.

"Most likely," affirmed Megan, stepping around the corpse to view the man's surprised expression more closely. "From what I know of the Russian mob, if it was revenge from a higher-up, this would have turned out a lot nastier."

Don's stomach did a little twist. What Charlie had done could definitely invoke the wrath of a higher-up; the image of the cell phone antenna, hanging at such a harsh angle, flashed through his mind.

"Agent Eppes!"

The interruption came from a young LAPD officer, who gestured for Don to follow him. Two flights of stairs and a set of doors later, and they were out behind the motel and approaching a dumpster. His heart skipped a beat.

"We found a laptop in the dumpster," remarked the officer, and he pointed out a slim silver laptop being lovingly handled by one of the more technically gifted officers. "Brand new, no prints we could use. It was still on, and the page up on the screen was a file from your FBI database on some military base."

Don stopped in his tracks. "Which base?"

"I don't know," admitted the officer. "Hey, Mike," he addressed the officer with the laptop, "bring up the original page for me, will you?"

Mike nodded, and the screen was suddenly filled with a proud and prominent title:

EDWARDS AIR BASE

L.A. County, California

"Thanks guys," he said hastily, turning to see Megan approaching. "We've got our location," he informed her.

"Why would they leave such obvious evidence of where they were going?" Megan questioned, suspicious.

"They _were_ in a hurry," Don offered lamely.

"Try going back to the page visited before this one," she suggested. Mike clicked, and the page reconstructed itself, the title instead reading:

LOS ANGELES AIR FORCE BASE

L.A. County, California

"All right," Don said. "They almost got busted once, and the plan is out the window. What are they going to do?"

"They'll attack soon, probably tonight, to cut their losses," Megan theorized.

"Okay," he replied, ticking things off on his fingers, "we're gonna need some serious backup on this one; I mean, we –I," he corrected himself quietly, "just poked the alligator with the stick. We know they have access to automatic weapons and explosives; I'm gonna say SWAT, at the very least. I want you to head back to the office and try to requisition two, maybe three units for a strike. Get Colby working on this dead guy of ours. I wanna know who he is and who he's working for. Once the troops are rallied, you and David can meet me there."

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Megan, her friendly tone expertly masking her concern.

"To go scope the place," Don replied.

She shot him a look.

"Look, I'm not gonna go all suicidal on you," he reassured her. "I just want to make sure I'm there if we find… when we go in."

The modified phrase hung in the air between them for a moment.

"You don't go in until we get there, right?" Megan asked, eyebrows raised.

"Hey, who's the lead agent here?" countered Don, throwing his arms wide. Reaching his SUV, he climbed into the passenger's seat with some difficulty, signaling the driver to start the engine. Settling into the seat, he paused for a moment to draw the ruined cell phone from his pocket, staring down at it thoughtfully as the car pulled away from his latest mistake.


	13. Undermined

A busy week for me means sad, neglected readers... :-(

Read and smile! OR maybe not... this one's kind of grim.

**13. Undermined**

"**The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong it usually turns out to be impossible to get at and repair." – Douglas Adams**

Step by agonizing step, Megan climbed the staircase, pausing gonly briefly to gaze up at the six flights she had yet to tackle if she were going to reach the office by this means. Sighing, she continued, the rhythmic plodding of her heels against the heartless tone echoing the tiny and yet endless space, almost therapeutic in its consistency.

Rap tap tap tap tap tap tap…

And yet, each burning movement of ascension made her rethink her reasons for not taking the elevator; it seemed a strange irony that an FBI psychologist would submit to evasive behavior because of one traumatic elevator experience. Afraid of what she would find when the doors opened, she had opted for the stairs – classic, and yet so very wrong. The thought of irrational behavior conjured up a picture of Don in her mind, right at the moment Charlie had called him. Those were not the eyes of a man with his head straight. She had tried to ignore it, clinging to the idea she had seen him this worked up before, but the rash, brazen stranger that she had worked with of late was definitely something new.

Rap tap tap tap tap tap tap…

Three landings later, she pulled from her belt her cell phone, surfing the phone book until she found the number for the supplies and requisitions office. Two rings passed before a man answered.

" FBI supplies department. Can I help you?"

"Yes, this is Agent Megan Reeves. I need three SWAT units at LA Air Force Base, pronto."

There came an awkward little pause. "Excuse me, who is your commanding officer?"

"Special Agent Don Eppes," she replied slowly. "Is there a problem?"

Rap tap tap tap tap tap tap…

The pause was longer this time. "I'm sorry," he said finally, though he didn't sound it. "All resources for that department have been frozen."

Rap tap tap tap stumble stumble STOP.

"What? Why?"

"You'll have to talk to your CO, agent," suggested the operator. "You have a good day." CLICK.

Staring down at the phone in a daze, she felt the anger rising in her. She would most certainly NOT have a good day if she couldn't get those units to Don. A cry of protest seemed stuck in her throat; frozen? Rounding the bend, she emerged onto the 23rd floor landing, throwing her full weight against the door and blowing through it.

The first thing she noticed about the office was how quiet it was, and for a moment, she felt her heart sinking: another attack? No. The usual sounds of idle chatter, ringing phones, and clicking computer keys had ceased, leaving in its wake a tense silence that put her immediately on her guard. And yet the cubicles stood, untouched, the windows unmarked since their recent replacement. It was still the office, just as she had left it – sans people.

In fact, the only people present were gathered in the conference room. Colby and David sat in office chairs, watching the unfamiliar man in a suit who was keeping them there with a kind of bridled resentment. The stranger turned as she entered, the look in his eye giving her the uncomfortable feeling she was being profiled.

"David? Colby? What's going on? Where is everybody?"

The man in the suit turned to face her, stepping between her and her teammates.

"Perhaps we haven't met," he said coolly, holding out a hand that she didn't take; there was something in those gray eyes of his she didn't trust. "Jack Swearingen. I'm the administrator for the L.A. branch in Washington."

Washington. No wonder she didn't trust him. "You froze our supplies." It was a statement, cold and slightly threatening.

"The entire office, in fact," corrected Swearingen with an altogether too pleased smile. "An issue I'm afraid I must discuss with your boss. Where is Agent Eppes?"

"Patiently waiting for SWAT to help break up a potentially deadly hostage situation." Her voice held an underlying note of defiance.

"All activities in this office have been halted. He'll have to return immediately."

Megan was incredulous. "This could be the only chance we have to recover this hostage."

"You office was instructed to crop the Sidorov case, Agent Reeves," he said, and his eyes narrowed. "That order still stands, regardless of circumstances."

"Fine," she said, resisting a grin, "you try and call him off this one."

"Oh, I have," said Swearingen. "Agent Eppes seems to be unreachable at the moment. Would you care to know why, Agent Reeves?"

Leaning on the desk, he reached over to the phone at the center and pressed a button. A tiny electronic beep told her where this was headed.

"FBI operator."

"Hello, this is Administrator Swearingen. Patch me through to Agent Don Eppes, please."

The words that followed made the color drain from her face.

"Agent Eppes is in active pursuit; I can't patch you through until he codes in."

"All right, thank you," closed Swearingen, and he cut the line.

"He went in," she said blankly. "He thinks he has three units of SWAT behind him, but—"

Swearingen crossed his arms and leaned against the table. "Your man Eppes just started a land war in Asia… with no backup."


	14. Sheep Among Wolves

Part of the lateness of this update is a new job that's killing me.

The other part was my hesitance at posting it. It seems my portrayal of the Eppes brothers' exploits becomes less plausible with each chapter. I guess I'd rather be happy than right, but still...

Even if the adrenaline doesn't quite flow, feel free to laugh out loud, which has equal entertainment possibilities... :-)

**14. Sheep Among Wolves**

"**Lie to a liar, for lies are his coin; Steal from a thief, for that is easy; lay a trap for a trickster and catch him at first attempt, but beware of an honest man." – Arab Proverb**

The van was parked at a jaunt, mocking angle; the doors open, lights on, and radio blaring, it was a giant beacon of the Russians' presence, and it was because of its blatancy that Don approached it with caution. He crutched his way around it slowly, inspecting it for any sign of the Russians or Charlie; he swallowed hard as his eyes fell on a spot of blood, a dark silhouette against the tan upholstery. Shaking his head, he pulled out his phone and dialed the office. Shaking his head, he pulled out his phone and dialed the office. The call went through to the answering machine, and he frowned. Had they really already left?

"Hey, guys," he began. "Well, it looks like Sidorov and his guys are already here; we need to move in ASAP. Send all your units to L.A. Air Base, and get a casing team down here as well. We got some evidence to go through."

Flipping his phone shut, he replaced it on his belt. Stretching, he sat back against the van and watched the sun setting over the distant L.A. skyline. He wanted to go in, now, but couldn't find a reason. Besides, the scene seemed to peaceful, too peaceful for for these games of mice and men, too peaceful for this to be happening right now…

…and altogether too peaceful for the gunshot that interrupted that tranquil silence a moment later.

Starting, he ducked into the van; the creative lines in his brain were cut, sharpening him into something cold and hard that wanted to survive, the part of him that was the real FBI agent. A minute passed, absent of any further interruptions. Quietly as he could, he slipped back out and made off in the direction of the sound, which he figured to be near the south entrance to the base – on the clear other side of the facility. The trek could take ten minutes; no, he would have to cut through the building.

Approaching the doors of the northern entrance, he fished in his pocket for his badge, which, with a satisfied beep from the doors, gained him entrance. The door shut behind him with an ominous slam that echoed down chilling, empty hallways; with Edwards handling all of the local air traffic, L.A. was largely unmanned. He suddenly wished he could hold his gun as well as work his crutches, but he didn't need Charlie to tell him the laws of physics wouldn't let him get away with that.

Suddenly, ina shower of sparks and popping sounds, the lights went out; the doors behind him emitted little clicks, and he turned to see a red sign marked LOCKDOWN start to flash. A cold gripped him; someone knew he was here.

A faint cry interrupted his panicked thoughts; head whipping around, he followed the noise, a weak sobbing that had his heart in his throat in a second. Hesitantly, he crept forward, hissing softly to the smothering dark.

"Charlie?"

The only reply was a sudden silence as the sobs ceased; they quickly resumed, growing steadily louder as he worked his way through the maze of hallways. At last, he ducked around a corner to find a door slightly ajar. Crutching towards it, he leaned against a wall and peered inside. The only light in the room came from the soft glow leaking through the gap under a door on the far side. Squinting, he made out a dark form, lying almost still, sprawled on the floor between him and the door. His heart skipped a beat.

"Charlie," he whispered, abandoning his crutches at the door and crawling forward. The figure flinched as he lay a hand on his shoulder. "Ssssh, Charlie. It's me."

"Hmf?" came the garbled reply. Of course – a gag. Grabbing his utility knife, he switched on his flashlight and made as if to remove it.

Charlie looked like he was just about as close as one could get to death without actually being there. Pale skin showcased two sunken black eyes and a rash of rough five o'clock shadow. Black curls were plastered to his face with a mix of sweat, blood, and tears, the third of which were still forthcoming; in a second, Don knew why, drawing back in shock.

His lower jaw lay at such an angle that the lower set of teeth ran almost perpendicular to the top, quivering uselessly in a mix of attempts to speak and the ongoing sobs. His cheek was a fantasia of black, blue, and purple, and held the only color left in his face at all. Tear-filled, fear-filled, pleading eyes communicated well enough in the absence of his voice: _help me._

"All right, buddy" he soothed, gritting his teeth so as not to betray his anger. "We can get you fixed up in no time, but we've got to get out of here, okay? Come on."

Don turned, ready to lend the use of his crutches to the one in need, when the lights suddenly flicked back on. That, in addition to the quiet click and the cool metal at the base of his neck, was the only warning he had of the person behind him.

"Close," drawled the Russian, "but no cigar."

Another one grabbed his crutches, and he slowly raised his hands, stranded in the middle of the floor. He felt someone going through his belt, and he was relieved of his cell phone and his gun.

"Now turn around," he ordered. "Slowly."

The time had come, he decided; in reality, he turned a lot faster than his assailant would have liked, delivering him a sharp blow to the stomach with his elbow. As the man doubled over, he spun and, using his completely healthy right leg, performed a powerful roundhouse kick that landed squarely on the thug's nose, breaking it. The man fell in a spray of blood and expletives, and Don dove for his weapon and phone, ducking out of the sights of the other's gun. Landing hard on his back, he clicked back the safety and fired. The other man fell, gasping, two broad scarlet flowers blossoming on his shirtfront. Gathering weapons and walkie-talkies, he looked up to see Charlie, staring at him with awe.

"A taste of their own medicine," he explained, gesturing to his miraculously 'healed' leg. "The shot in the ambush was just a graze. How's that for a bluff?"

Hearing shouts from the hall, he ducked outside, brandishing his gun, to see a group of at least four, running down the hall towards the exit. He ran after them, shouting for them to stop, but it only spurred them on, and besides, they were too far ahead. He had barely reached the south entrance doors when he heard screeching tires. Reluctantly, he hung from the door frame, watching the white van shoot off into the twilight.

Frustrated, he returned to the room, which he identified with little interest as a Storage Closet K now that the lights were on. Out came his cell phone.

"Operator."

"This is Agent Don Eppes, code alpha six eight two four, requesting backup at L.A. Air Base. I have a white van heading north on Hanover Lane. And send an ambulance."

Charlie's eyes were closed, but he was breathing easier now. For a moment, Don watched him, unsure of whether to keep him awake or let him lie; his instant reaction was to grab some part of him, hold on, and never, ever let go, but most of the convenient places were either bruised or bleeding. Something else caught his eye, a tiny glint from beyond his brother. Crossing to the man he'd shot, he crouched next to him, pulling open his jacket carefully. What he saw made his stomach go cold.

The man's smiling face stared up at him, with the name Sevastian Butkovsky, a 37-year old Russian male living in L.A. Above the photo glinted a shining crest and the letters:

F

B

I


	15. Aces on the Table

I could take the time to tell you all the excellent reasons why I haven't posted in so long, but you guys aren't here to read that, you're here to read the story, so here it is.

There will be a total of eighteen chapters, the last probably coming out the day after tomorrow.

Read, smile, and review!

**15. Aces on the Table**

"**Though those that are betray'd / Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor / Stands in worse case of woe." – William Shakespeare**

Green way supposed to be a soothing color, and yet Don's nerves still danced with the same adrenaline he'd felt at the air base as he gazed blankly at the seafoam green of the hospital wall. As a reflex, he checked his watch: 10:18 PM. He rubbed at his glazed eyes and put his head in his hands; the floor beneath him was as polished as a mirror, and he observed wistfully his own red-rimmed eyes, begging him for rest. Yet even if the waiting room had been made for sleeping in, he would not be able to slow his racing mind. Three days ago, most of his life had made sense; he had a father and brother largely uninvolved in all this, a team he could trust, and some degree of confidence. Seventy-two hours later, he felt so vulnerable, his world knocked out f alignment by one person – or rather, the absence of one person.

And now this.

Searching for something to do, his eyes fell on the laptop beside him, which had so inconveniently run out of batteries a half an hour ago. Don had almost welcomed the interruption; what the machine had been telling him was something he wished he could forget, and yet, he could not, _would _not, let it pass.

The knotted hospital hallways were good for one thing at least: echoes. It was these that alerted Don to the businesslike footsteps proceeding down the hall, the first sound to interrupt the faint elevator music playing in almost two hours. He turned to see a familiar balding, white-suited individual emerge from the ward.

"Mr. Eppes?" he inquired, and Don nodded, rising. The doctor held out a hand. "I'm Dr. Bartlett. Your brother is going to be just fine. We reset the jaw, so he can eat and talk, but he should definitely take it easy the next few days, especially considering the amount of time it was out of alignment."

Listening, Don nodded, running a hand through his hair and internally kicking himself as he thought of the reason it had taken so long for Charlie to get medical attention.

"I'd recommend he stay here for about 48 hours, just in case he runs into any problems. After that, he'll be free to go home."

The news relieved much of the worry that had plagued him, and yet one anxiety still remained. "When can I see him?"

It was the doctor's turn to check his watch. "He got out of surgery about a half hour ago, so he should be sleeping, but from the looks of it, so should you," Bartlett reasoned with a small smile. Stepping back, he held open the swinging door to the ward to allow him entrance. Down the hall he led him, passing darkened rooms and shut doors, until at last…

"Mr. Eppes?" Bartlett called softly, poking his head into a room and rapping quietly on the door. He seemed to illicit some response, for he continued. "Mr. Eppes is here to see you."

Withdrawing, he shook Don's hand once more, then took his leave. Warily, Don peeked into the room himself, unsure of whether he would like what he would see.

It was much better than he had expected; the only assistance device present was a saline drip parked on the far side of the bed, contrary to the thousands he had envisioned. Charlie himself looked much improved; his jaw was still as colorfully decorated as the ceiling to the Sistine Chapel, and yet his cheeks had regained some color, giving him the appearance of someone who perhaps had a bad fever as opposed the white sheet Don had rescued from the air base. Slightly glazed eyes darted to him as he entered.

"Don," he managed with some difficulty, and he started to sit up, but Don gestured for a cease to the effort.

"Don't get up," he insisted. "You look beat."

"Don't feel great," came the reply. His jaw seemed to work stiffly, his speech hampered in the same way the inability to bend your knee would delay with the ability to climb and descend stairs: you can still get there, but it's a task. The look on his brother's face conveyed much of the emotion he couldn't manage with the impediment. "I'm sorry… I didn't know what to do… just sat there… and I told them… they were hitting me, and I couldn't…ah!" Shifting to free an arm from beneath the covers, he soothed his jaw, unused to the sudden activity, and Don interrupted.

"None of this was your fault, buddy," he assured him gently. _If anything, it's mine._ "You just concentrate on getting better for me, okay?"

Charlie nodded and settled back, though his eyes still held the threads of guilt Don had seen in his own.

"Actually, could you do something for me, buddy?" Don asked, guilt nagging at him as he pulled from his pocket his notepad. "Can I ask you some stuff? About…?"

After a single moment's hesitation, Charlie nodded.

"Do you remember anything that they said? What they talked about?"

A spark of interest found its way into Charlie's voice as he answered. "Distraction. What they did before." He fingered his jaw again, then continued. "Plans."

"Plans?" Don asked, brows raised.

Nodding, Charlie mimed writing in the air, and Don approached the bed, handing him his notepad and pen. For a minute, he watched Charlie scribbling frantically; his eyes perused once more the bruised area of dislocation. It seemed trouble was following the Eppes family this week.

In fact, trouble walked through the door a minute later, flanked by two of the people he needed to talk to the most.

"Megan, David," he acknowledged as they entered. They seemed oddly quiet.

"Don," Megan greeted him, a note of distress in her tone, "can I talk to you quickly, outside?"  
"Actually, that won't be necessary," interrupted the stranger before he could reply. "I need to speak with Agent Eppes myself, and I'm afraid I have priority."

"And you are?" said Don, his forehead wrinkling in suspicion.

"Jack Swearingen, administrator in Washington for the L.A. branch," he introduced himself, holding out a hand. Don stared at it for a minute with distaste before Swearingen put it down; the name had struck some sort of key in him, probably B sharp, by the sour look on his face.

"What's Washington doing in L.A.?" he asked warily.

"You were told to drop the Sidorov case," parroted Swearingen. "I'm just making sure a resource-wasting investigation is put to bed."

Don was about to reply when he felt someone tap his arm; turning, he took from Charlie his notebook, which was by now several pages fuller with a messy preliminary statement. As his eyes scanned the page, his stomach twisted; his worst fears were confirmed. Pocketing the notepad once more, he turned, took in Swearingen's cheerfully smiling visage, and landed a nice punch right in the center of those pearly whites. Eyes bulging in shock, Swearingen staggered back, clutching a bleeding mouth, white Don shook blood from his skinned knuckles.

"What the hell?" Swearingen cried, his professional demeanor vanished. Without a word, Don crossed the room, grabbed the agent by the lapels, and threw him against the wall. Metal clinked on metal as he retrieved his cuffs.

"You made a big mistake in coming here," he said into Swearingen's ear. "I have you for fifteen counts of murder, terrorism, conspiracy to commit murder, and attempted murder—" he paused and leaned in closer, "--of me."


	16. Swallow the Knife

Here you go guys. Let's get Don out of guilt-trip mode and put him where he's at home... interrogation!

**16. Swallow the Knife**

**"The formulation of a problem is often more essential than its solution, which may be merely a matter of mathematical or experimental skill." – Albert Einstein**

Swearingen flinched a little as the stack of files hit the table in front of him, and he leaned back, threatened, as Don leaned forward over the table, right in his face. Unseen to him or Swearingen, the entire rest of the team had squeezed into the tiny monitoring room, from which they watched the scene unfolding in interrogation room one. Megan peered closely at the screen, biting her nails absentmindedly; she was watching Don just as carefully as Swearingen, although she was relieved to see a sense of determination and purpose in his eyes that he had lost of late.

"There had better be a damn good reason for this, Eppes," spat Swearingen, taking the offensive. "When Washington hears about this—"

"Oh, I really hope Washington hears about this," interrupted Don. "Not that you have anything to do with Washington, but I'm sure news will travel fast."

"What? What are you talking about?" Swearingen's innocent tone sounded foolish next to the unstoppable behemoth of Don's rage.

"I checked your file," he said. "You did some of your homework, I'll give you that. Jack Swearingen _was_ the L.A. branch administrator – six years ago. He died in a car crash right here in L.A. in 2002." He thumped a picture down on the table of a twisted car wreck, and the gang in the monitor room goggled at the implication. The man who had so recently been Swearingen hung his head in his hands and groaned as Don seated himself on the corner of the table. "Which brings into question: who the hell are you?"

After a pause, the man looked up, and everyone watching – hidden or not—seemed surprised at the sudden thick Russian accent that tainted his words. "My name is Valentin Sidorov."

"Sidorov? As in Anton Sidorov?"

"Yes, Anton is my brother. But he has done nothing wrong; neither of us have."

Don stood and reached for the top file. "Are you sure?" he said vehemently. From the folder he started pulling pictures of the ruined CalSci quad, the ravaged office, the same pictures that had been giving him trouble lately. "'Cause I have Anton connected to all of these things. Fifteen counts of murder alone is enough to put him away for fifteen lifetimes." He slammed the last one down with particular verve: a picture of Charlie he had taken on his phone. "Him… or you."

Valentin's eyes went wide. "I didn't do anything! I swear!"

Don started pacing. "Okay, then tell me what you were doing here."

"I was only supposed to distract you people," he said, his eyes pleading. "Anton told me you were going to be sniffing around, and that he needed more time to…" He trailed off, seemingly unwilling to elaborate. Megan tensed, waiting for Don to explode.

"It's okay," he said, though his sarcastic tone suggested it wasn't. "I already know the rest. Let me see if I have my facts straight; you guys thought you could shake things up a little, sneak into an air base, and use the nuclear missiles to fry up a few prime square miles of U.S. land."

"No, no, NO!" Valetin protested wildly. "That is not true; we never meant for you people to get hurt."

"Oh, really?" Don gestured at the photo gallery splayed out across the table. "That seems to have gone out the window, don't you think?"

"Yes, I don't think they told Anton what they really wanted to do."

"They?" prompted Don.

"Agent Butkovsky and Agent Petrovin," replied Valentin. "They were FBI."

The monitor room was silent with shock. Don, however, seemed to take it in stride.

"Yeah, I know all about them," he said. "What didn't they tell Anton?"

Sighing, Valentin started in. "Anton was a gangster – he had no interest in what we really wanted to accomplish. He had the expertise to get us where we needed to go; he was a means to an end. They told him whatever they had to to get him to do what they needed him to."

"You still haven't answered my question," urged Don.

"Like I said, we never meant to harm you people," Valentin insisted. "The missiles were not aimed at U.S. land. They were aimed at Russia."

Silence.

Even Don seemed blown away, despite him being the only one who knew where this was going. "_What?_"

"I said Anton was a gangster. Agent Butkovsky, Agent Petrovin, they were not. They were on a mission. The government told them to do it."

"Hold on," said Don, gesturing for a cease to the confession. "They were on a government-sanctioned mission?"

"That's what they told me." Don paced, running his hands through his hair.

"What was with all the cloak-and-dagger, pinning it on the mob?"

"The government wanted deniability if it went wrong," Valentin pointed out. "They wanted to start a war with Russia, but they didn't want to be the ones to start it, if that makes sense. If it worked, they could go to war with Russia when it retaliated; if it didn't, they could always blame Russia for the botched job and go to war anyway."

Leaning against the wall for support, Don crossed his arms. It was a little while before he continued. "Why target me and my... my team?"

"You had a history with the Russian mob," Valentin started, ticking things off on his fingers. "There are some people in Washington who want you dead anyway; you know more than you think you do, Eppes. Even if we didn't take you out, they thought it would keep you and anyone else involved too busy to figure out what was going on."

For a moment, Don watched Valentin closely. Then he shot a glance at the window to the monitor room. Megan gave him an unseen thumbs-up.

"So, where does all this go from here?" asked Don of Valentin.

"Since they failed at L.A., I would say they would move on to Edwards."

Don nodded. "You hang tight," he said, then took his leave.

Whistling, Megan leaned back in her chair. Turning to David and Colby, who had been silent through the whole affair, she smiled. "Pretty impressive," she admitted, and the others had to agree.

Just then, the door to the monitor room opened, and Don poked his head in.

"Anyone up for a field trip?"


	17. Fade to Black

Second to last, guys. Read, smile, and review!

**17. Fade to Black**

"**All men are prepared to accomplish the incredible if their ideals are threatened." ****-- Hermann Hesse**

When the gunfire started, erupting suddenly into a rattling roar that carried through the building, Don was doing what Don did best—sneaking. Ducking down, he pressed himself flat against the wall, too wired event o breathe. After the shooting stopped, unaccompanied by any means of raising an alarm, he took a deep breath, cocking his head to speak into his com.

"Hey, what's happening? Everyone okay?"

"Automatics," reported David redundantly. "Sounded like it was coming from the north wing."

Racking his brains, he conjured up a mental picture of the blueprints he'd spent the last four hours memorizing. "North wing? That's mostly storage rooms."

"What would they bee doing up there?" Megan puzzled. "The control room is in the basement, and there aren't even any stairs or elevators nearby."

Casting around for an explanation, his eyes fell on a sign, set beneath a plastic cover bolted to the wall. A printout of the layout of Edward's Air Force Base showed the evacuation plan in case of a fire with a thick red line that twisted through two dimensional hallways. Another instructed passerby as to what to do if there was an earthquake, and a third map, larger than the others, demonstrated the protocol in the event of a lockdown, illustrated by a similar red line that advised readers to make their way to the north wing in order to pick up…

"Weapons," he said softly.

"What?"

"We're dealing with agents here. They know we're onto them, and that we're probably already here. They're not expecting to get out of here alive, but they want to hold out as long as they can."

"So they lock themselves in with the weapons supply," finished David.

"I don't know," Megan said, suspicion in her voice. "They still want to complete the mission, even if it is their last."

"All right then," broke in Don, taking charge. "Megan, you take SWAT and secure the north wing. David, I want you to take your guys and hang back for now. If something sounds like its going south, you come in. Clear?"

"Don, are you sure you don't want backup? I could—"

He interrupted David mid-sentence. "Move!"

Cutting the connection to avoid further protests, he regained his feet and moved down the all, breaking into a run when he thought of how far away the nearest flight of stairs was. He wrenched open the door to the landing just in time to hear the give-and-take of bullets start up again; then the door shut behind him, locking out all sounds except the pounding of his feet on the stairs. Down a single flight he rushed; turning, he spotted the door to the basement level standing open and slowed, flinching as the echoes of the racket he'd made died away.

Stepping through, he cleared the hall with a sweep of his eyes, nonetheless drawing his gun and dropping into a half-crouch before he continued. He once more summoned up the layout; if he remembered correctly, the entrance to the vault-like room would be…

The lighting down here was dim and in general disrepair, as this part of the facility went largely unused, and yet he could still make out the small keypad set into the wall. Crossing to it, he punched in the code the dirty administrator sitting in their lockup had given him; it clicked approvingly and allowed him entrance. Hauling open the vault door with little grace, he stepped back, pulling his flashlight from his belt and shining it into the room. Light glinted off row upon row of keyholes, levers, and buttons, so innocent in appearance, considering their purpose. Other than the neatly configured controls, however, the room was empty. He let out the breath he'd been holding and fingered his com.

"Control room's clear," he reported quietly. "David, how—"

His assailant ended the conversation abruptly with a kick to his head that left him sprawled on the floor. A foot came down hard on his wrist; he heard it snap before he felt it, his fingers suddenly refusing to clench around the handle of his gun. Letting out a cry, he froze as a quiet click alerted him to the fact that he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Unable to take his eyes from it, he instead identified his enemy by the Russian drawl that broke the tomblike quiet a moment later.

"Well, well, Agent Eppes," came Anton Sidorov's sarcastic greeting. "It seems you brother is not the only one able to open the right doors, yes?"

Frantic, Don rolled to the side; his right arm was still held fast by Anton's foot, but his left groped wildly for his discarded weapon. This earned him a smack across the face and Anton's full weight on his wrist; he yelled and recoiled, feeling bone grinding against bone. Anton's grin was almost demonic in the dim light; blood from above his eye blurred his vision, making the sight even more surreal, but he blinked it away.

"You can't even arm the missiles," spat Don, trying to buy time.

Anton nodded approvingly. "Quite right," he admitted. "Another reason I need you." He trained the gun on Don's head. "Give me the authorization code."

"No," he answered. Even if he had the code, to hell with hostage protocol – this was thousands of lives he was talking about.

Anton clicked back the safety. "Wrong answer, Eppes."

Don closed his eyes, braced for impact, and—

--BA-BANG.

The first thing he felt following the mysterious double blam was the bullet as it bit into his right bicep, swearing as the drawback instinct jarred his wrist. The next thing he felt was the body of Anton Sidorov collapse on top of him. Gasping for air, he tried to push the corpse off, with little success; a second later, white lights flooded the control room, and strong hands pushed Anton aside. Propping himself up on his good elbow, Don blinked through the sudden glare to make out his savior.

"Everything all right down there?" David sounded worried, but something in his tone made him sound insincere. Don reached for his com, but his rescuer beat him to it, unclipping the device from his vest for easier use.

"Things didn't go exactly according to plan," admitted Colby sheepishly, "but I think we'll be okay."


	18. Epilogue: Obituary

Last one. Read, smile and review... (sniff sniff) one last time.

**18. Epilogue - Obituary**

"**This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning." – Winston Churchill**

In the true spirit of the day, it was raining, a light, splattering drizzle that nonetheless darkened the clouds and cast a gloom over everything. It dripped off of rooftops, falling on fortunate people with umbrellas and less fortunate people who were forced to jog in an attempt to deter the rain some other way. It flowed down the street in a haphazard stream, trying to find a drainage grate into which it could disappear. It carved tiny rivers across the humongous sign that read CATHEDRAL OF OUR LADY OF THE ANGELS, running down the pale cheeks of angels, carved into the building itself, like holy tears. It gathered on the windshield of a familiar black SUV, distorting Don's view of the cathedral entrance before the wipers could do away with it.

Sighing, he glanced at the clock set into the dash: 4:58. He settled back; the service didn't end until five, and yet he'd been here since three, waiting. Running his good hand through his hair, he watched the church entrance but didn't really see it; his mind was filled with the two very different services he'd just left. Three agents, dead in the shootout at the office, decorated and mourned heavily; two agents, only following the orders of their country, shunned, buried and happily forgotten. He shook his head and bumped up the wiper speed as the rain increased to a full-on downpour, complete with people in suits running around with their briefcases over their heads. Idle, his mind was a dangerous place; the scenario in the control room at Edwards gave him plenty of possibilities to contemplate.

Shifting, he eased his arm out of the sling in which it rested, examining with particular intensity the purple lines in his skin that betrayed the state of his wrist, in case the cast didn't afford a good enough clue. For a fleeting second, he remembered closing his eyes, hearing the shot. Charlie's words from so long ago drifted back to him.

_"Statistically, you're dead now. Do you understand what that means? A man pointed a gun at your head and fired; the fact that you survived was an anomaly, and it is unlikely to be the outcome of a second such encounter."_

But it had.

Accustomed to the pounding of the rain on the hood, the car seemed very silent to him, and he turned on the radio to break it. His favorite music channel came in fuzzy, so he flicked through the stations until he settled on something clear.

"Hey, this is Josh Andrews with your daily weather; we have reported showers in the downtown area, which are expected to escalate into thunderstorms later this afternoon. Residents in the Pasadena and Burbank areas can expect showers later tonight as the storm moves inland. The bad weather is expected to break sometime tomorrow afternoon; check out our website for the list of flood warnings and closed roads. Now, over to Mike with your latest headlines."

He almost turned it off, content with the weather report, but just then, the car door opened, and Charlie slipped into the passenger seat. Looking up, he peered through the rain-covered windshield to see a crowd of people in black drifting through the open cathedral doors.

"Hey," Don managed.

"Hey." Shimmying into the seat, Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of things obstructing his access to the seatbelt. Onto the dash he set a half-used pack of Kleenex, the rumpled-up missing tissues, and several papers. On top of these lay several newspaper clippings; one, a picture of twelve smiling faces – school photos – with a caption reading 'innocent victims.' An article below it explained the CalSci bombing, and an entire page of obituaries identified each student, their merits, and those they'd left behind. Large sections of it had been singled out with yellow highlighter, scribbled notes in Charlie's handwriting explaining their significance.

With nothing left to say, Don revived the engine from its comatose state and pulled out, speeding off down the road and leaving only a sluice of water in their wake. In the prolonged quiet, they both had ample opportunity to hear the radio, still mumbling away beneath the drumming on the windshield.

"This is Mike with your latest headlines; a recent investigation by the Los Angeles FBI has led to the discovery of a huge government scandal related to recent break-ins at Edwards and L.A. Air Bases. While authorities have little to disclose at this point, several prominent figures in Washington are announcing their intent to step down in connection with the scandal. The president has ordered a close examination of all government positions in an attempt to quote "clean up.""

Silence enveloped the car, but Mike continued in the same inappropriately cheerful tone as before.

"More on that later. A series of car jackings in the Torrance area have yielded few suspects; police are advising locals to…"

Interest depleted, Don reached over and turned down the volume, leaving Mike to chatter on as background noise.

"You did good," said Charlie at last, staring wistfully out the window at the downpour.

"I guess so." Don drummed his fingers on the wheel, waiting for a red light.

"I'm just glad it's over," admitted Charlie.

The rain poured. Slick wet road slid by on either side of them. A driveway presented itself, and Don pulled in, noting with satisfaction the repaired living room windows of the Eppes residence – they'd needed replacing since the ambush. Don cut the engine with a sigh and exited, slamming his door behind him. Alan emerged from the house at the sound, brandishing a stack of bills.

"Oh," he said upon sighting them. "I thought you were the delivery guy."

Once inside, Don made a beeline for the kitchen, retrieving three beers from the fridge. Handing one to Charlie, he collapsed onto the couch, vaguely fingering the remote but not turning on the TV.

"Well, this is nice," said Alan, setting an extra place for Don at the table. "Both of my sons, home safe and whole."

Charlie nodded, taking a swig of beer.

By the time Don spoke, he had downed half of his first bottle, and felt the better for it. In his job, there were days to remember, and there were days to forget; what he had come to realize was that the last few days were of the worst kind: days you want to forget, but have to remember.

"You get home safe," he muttered. "That's all you can ask for."

_P.S. -- This sucker is done! However, I have a dilemma. I have another, altogether shorter, NUMB3RS fic lined up, but until the next season comes out on DVD, I'm resorting to watching ER from the beginning, so the characters might get a little mixed up personality-wise. Should I try to stick with NUMB3RS fics, or convert to ER? Tell me what you think!_


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